


I Wish You Could See The World Through My Eyes.

by lovingangelindisguise



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: And I'm Okay With That - Freeform, Attempted Murder, Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Bloodplay, Body Horror, Breaking and Entering, Choking, Crying, Crying Kink, Dacryphilia, Dom/sub, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, Horror, Inspired by Dead by Daylight (Video Game), Knifeplay, Masks, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Sadism, Stabbing, Survival Horror, Vaginal Fingering, Verbal Humiliation, Violence, ghostface - Freeform, had to write something a little more fucked up than usual for Halloween, no regrets, scream, tbh this went way off the rails
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:34:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27265072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovingangelindisguise/pseuds/lovingangelindisguise
Summary: "You have no idea what I have planned for you. It'll be in the news for weeks. I'll make sure of that."It's Halloween weekend but you're staying in, exhausted from a long week of work. So, the party decides to find you.
Relationships: Danny "Jed Olsen" Johnson | The Ghost Face/Original Female Character(s), Danny "Jed Olsen" Johnson | The Ghost Face/Reader, Danny "Jed Olsen" Johnson | The Ghost Face/You
Comments: 39
Kudos: 231





	1. Spookface

**Author's Note:**

> Just in time for Halloween! I was watching House of 1000 Corpses last night and well, then this fic happened. It was so much fun to write! I've become re-obsessed with Dead By Daylight and since I've never written any fics in this fandom, figured old Ghosty Face was a good place to start. I'm definitely going to write a Frank/Legion one next. That's way up on my to do list.
> 
> Thanks for reading and hope you enjoy!! This story is fucked up so please heed the tags!

It’s been a long day, to say the least. Your legs ache from waiting tables in heels all day and oh yeah, some asshole spilled their coffee on you on the bus ride home. A perfect end to your Friday night.

Still, you’re finally home and from what it looks like you have the house all to yourself. It’s Halloween weekend, so both your roommates are at one of the many parties they’ll be attending tonight. They did invite you, but after being in costume all day for work you knew that the last thing you would wanna do is go be around _more_ drunk assholes trying to grope your ass under your skirt. So, you politely declined. You have midterms next week anyway.

After you drop your bag by the door and kick off your heels, you head upstairs to your room, briefly stopping before the floor length mirror that rests against the wall at the top of the stairs to take in your reflection. Surprisingly, your costume survived an eight hour shift. This year you had decided to go as a slasher victim—wearing a plaid miniskirt with a white button down blouse and knee-high socks. Not to mention the fake blood you squirted all over yourself too. Yep, you really raked in the tips tonight.

You give your reflection a wry smile before heading towards your room. You didn’t bother to turn on any lights while you were downstairs, since the lamplight from the street shone bright enough through the windows, but your bedroom is too dark and you fumble blindly for the light switch till finally, you find it.

Nothing happens.

You blink a few times at the darkness before flicking the light switch up and down a couple more times. Still nothing.

“Fuck.” You whine, having so been looking forward to a hot shower. With a sigh you leave your bedroom and head back downstairs, stubbing your toe on the way through the living room and hobbling the rest of the way to the kitchen with a slew of curses. Tonight _really_ isn’t your night.

It is an old house, so the power does go out sometimes, but usually your roommate Dwight is the one to bravely venture to the cellar to power up the generator—not you. Especially since you are 100% convinced that the cellar is haunted.

With a deep breath you steel your nerves and open the door, the eerie creaking doing nothing for your courage. The first step is the hardest, right? Shadowed stairs stretch ominously before you, leading down to the cold, damp crypt. Too many horror movies all week have your imagination running wild.

Carefully, you make your way down the stairs, yellow light from the streetlamps outside shining dully through the dusty windows and illuminating the spacious cellar. Against the back wall, in the center of the room, the yellow hunk of metal sits despondent. You quickly shuffle over with a huff of annoyance and get to work on revving the generator up. Cold cement floor seeping through the soles of your black socks.

The first yank on the pullcord earns you some pathetic sputtering, and you glare down at the old machine. There is no way this thing is gonna get the best of you and live to tell the tale. For the second one, you really brace yourself—taking a wide stance and placing your free hand against the cold metal. Though just as you yank the cord, there’s a loud bang from upstairs, almost like a door slamming, and it makes you stop midmotion.

Silence.

“Dwight?! Claudette?! Is that you?!” You call, letting the pullcord fall now and turning towards the stairs.

There’s no response, but you can hear the creaking of the floorboards above you and then begins a steady thud. Just like footsteps.

“Guys?!” You call again. Still, no answer. Fear flutters in your stomach and you swallow thickly. Why won’t they answer you? The noise is moving closer. It’s making your legs feel weak and you lean back against the generator for support. Whichever one of those fuckers jumps out and startles you is on bathroom cleaning duty for a week.

The door to the cellar creaks open and the sound fills you with dread, heartbeat hammering in your ears. Whoever is there casts a long dark shadow down the stairs, and you find yourself looking from side to side for escape routes. The windows are too high to climb up and out in time. There’s only one way.

_Thud… Thud…_

Black combat boots come into view once he reaches the third step, and the whisps of a ragged black cloak dangle around his knees. Slowly, he descends the stairs, and the glint of something shiny at his side catches your eye for a moment, before again being obscured from view.

The hood of his cloak hides his profile, but once he takes the last step, he finally turns towards you—revealing a ghastly looking white mask with black eyes and a screaming mouth to match.

It’s not as scary as you were expecting, and you practically sigh in relief. He tilts his head in response, not moving any closer now, just watching you from across the room. Taking you in.

“This isn’t fucking funny, Dwight. You almost gave me a heart attack!” Your defiant words don’t do much to hide your fear since the shrill tone of your voice is a dead giveaway.

Ghost Face takes a step closer.

“Cut it out! It’s not funny!” You stand up from where you were leaning against the generator and cross your arms, giving him your best disapproving look. This earns you a low chuckle, and your brow furrows at the sound of his voice. It’s distorted, like speaking through a radio, and even still doesn’t at all sound like Dwight.

He takes a step towards you now, hand moving forth from where it had been obscured by his black cloak, and that’s when you see it—a knife. The blade is long and smooth, and even in the dim light you can tell it’s not just a prop. Your eyes widen at the sight, frozen in terror.

“Cute costume.” The sudden sound makes you jump, and before you can stop it adrenaline makes you jolt forward in a feeble attempt to run past him.

Instantly, his hand is around your throat in a crushing grip and dragging you back to slam you against the generator.

“Not so fast, _sweetheart_.” He calls you the pet name with dripping sarcasm as you claw at the forearm of his hand that’s squeezing your throat. You can’t tell if he’s looking at you or looking down, but your eyes dart away from the mask when he brings the knife up and slides the blade inside your shirt—between the buttons. He roughly yanks apart the fabric, the sharp edge cutting through it with ease, and nicking your skin in the process. Real crimson blood soaks through the white fabric, meshing with the corn syrup you’d doused yourself in earlier.

“Looks like you’ve already been having some fun, hm?” Now you know he’s looking down, his gaze roaming the expanse of your bare skin that’s been tinted a little red from all the fake blood. The tip of the blade is dragged up till he reaches the thin strip of material that holds your bralette together and in one fluid motion, slices it in half so that it falls to the sides—revealing your breasts to him. Even through the modulator you can hear his intake of breath, and it makes your skin heat up. He seems distracted, so you take this as your cue to ask why the _fuck_ he’s doing this to you:

“Why—“ You begin and without warning his arm jerks forward and the knife is plunged into your gut, stealing your words as white hot pain blooms deep inside. A rush of blood fills your mouth with a metallic taste, and coats the back of your throat and teeth, spilling past your chin when you finally open your mouth to make a shrill noise of surprise. Pins and needles prick beneath your skin, slowly spreading down to your legs, and everything sounds like you’re being held underwater. Every noise and movement vibrating in your skull.

He groans breathlessly into the modulator, and the vulgar sound snaps you back to reality and causes butterflies in your stomach—around the knife that’s currently lodged there. Thin streaks of blood leak from the wound when he withdraws the knife half an inch, marveling at the way your stomach muscles flex at the pull of metal against muscle. He shoves it in again, making you cry out it in agony and your hand holding onto his forearm squeezes so tight it feels like the bones in your fingers might shatter.

“Mmm, fuck—just like that...” His grip on the hilt tightens, knuckles shifting visibly beneath the black leather gloves. Your vision is blurred around the edges now and it makes the white of his mask a stark contrast to the black eyes and mouth which seem even more sunken and haunting. If it weren’t for his hand holding you up by the throat, you’d have collapsed already.

He slides the knife out an inch again and your gaze slips down to watch as he does it, transfixed by the sight as a fresh torrent of blood gushes forth. Your breasts heave with each breath, and the longer you stare your body starts to look unfamiliar. An intense pressure in your head makes the world sway, though the pain has muted to a steady warmth that makes your skin feel cold and clammy. Much to his surprise, you find the strength to speak:

“It… It’s so deep…” You murmur, staring with half-lidded eyes. Slowly, your fingers release the death grip on his forearm and drops instead to where his hand is wrapped around the hilt of the knife.

You can feel the blunt edge of his knuckles through the leather and the heat emanating from his skin, your fingers sliding beneath the sleeve of his cloak till you brush against bare skin. It’s soft and warm beneath your touch, the hairs on his arm tickling against your fingertips. At this gesture he tilts his head. The low, heavy sound of his breath crackling through the modulator.

The grip on your throat loosens, and then he’s pulling his hand away, but your vision is too clouded to see what he’s doing until you feel his hand slide beneath your skirt. Cold leather against your heated skin is a relief. Your brain is a step behind all that’s going on now, and you don’t register that he’s pulled your panties to the side until he’s shoving two fingers knuckle deep in your cunt. It doesn’t go unnoticed how easily they slide in, nor the quiet moan that leaves your blood sticky lips.

He wastes no time, curling his fingers forward till they brush against the spot inside that has you crying out in pleasure and your cunt spasming around his fingers. It makes your stomach clench around the blade too and for the first time, tears blur your eyes. The mind altering pain and new addition of pleasure is too much for your senses. He thrusts his fingers in roughly and at the same time his thumb is brushing against your clit, causing tears to fall now and spill down your cheeks, torn between the rising pleasure and edging darkness.

Suddenly his free hand leaves the blade and reaches up to lift his mask halfway, and you’re too weak to recoil as he leans in and licks a hot stripe up your cheek--- licking up your tears with an obscene groan that’s no longer disguised by the modulator. The sound fills your ears, and you gasp, his tongue hot and wet against your skin, lapping up your incessant tears. Every time his fingers fuck into you it shoves your body back against the generator, jostling the knife to the point that you swear you can feel the exact shape of it and both edges where they’re grating against your intestines.

“I know you’re close,” his fingers thrust a little harder as he speaks, “Give it to me. I wanna feel your cunt cum all over my fingers.”

His other hand is groping your breast, palming the weight, and rolling your rosy nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

Your response is a ragged moan, eyes squeezed shut and head lolling back as he keeps you helplessly pinned in place by the knife and his fingers that feel like they’re reaching just as deep as the blade. His breath is tickling your cheek—everything feels hypersensitive, and when his thumb begins rubbing circles over your clit again it’s forces your end.

Your hands fly up to grip his shoulders, sobbing as your orgasm wracks your body. Sparks of pleasure catch to flame and it’s consuming your being, burning you up from the inside out. Your cunt clenches and pulses around his fingers as he works you through your orgasm, whispering fucked up sweet-nothing’s that just make you come undone even more. The throb of pain in your gut and the pulse of pleasure between your thighs are warring, and your skin feels slick and hot everywhere.

When you finally slump forward limp, with your head resting against his shoulder, he reluctantly withdraws his fingers. His black leather glove is completely covered in your glistening arousal and if you weren’t bleeding out, you’d be embarrassed. Especially when that hand reaches up beneath his mask so he can lick his fingers clean with a satisfied hum.

Your eyes flutter down to the gray cellar floor, where there is now a dense fog seeping in from the windows. It must be the delirium from blood loss. Maybe you’ll be dead soon. Your head tilts back, gaze roaming upwards to catch a glimpse of his face, but his mask is already down. He’s fumbling for something in his pocket and then his other arm snakes around your waist, holding you close as he brings a camera into view—the lens pointed towards you both.

The flash is blinding and turns your vision white and all of the sudden you’re falling down, hands feebly gripping at his cloak as you slide to your knees. Everything seems to be happening in slow motion when your back finally hits the floor. The fog is rolling in thick around you, creeping over your body with a ghost like touch. Tunnel vision sets in, and all you see within the blinding white is the vacant stare of his mask, gazing down at you, before everything goes dark.

_“See you soon.”_


	2. Out of Existence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You've been taken by the entity.

When your eyes flicker open, they’re met by a starless night sky, inky black between thick branches. In your peripherals you see a steady flash of blue and red off the trees, though everything is quiet. Not even the sound of the city in the distance.

Much to your disoriented surprise, you’re sprawled out in the middle of a street you’ve never seen in your life. An empty police car is parked to where it’s blocking the road, while the sirens spin silently with their blinding light. There are a few other cars along the sidewalk that seem to have been abandoned as well, and somehow you have no recollection of how you got here. You force your stiff limbs to action and prop yourself up on your elbows to get a better look around.

A blur of motion near some of the trees makes your head whip around, and you groan at the sudden movement. Your body is achy, and you wonder if you’ve been straight up napping in the middle of the road for it to feel like you just emerged from cryostasis. Still, you force yourself to get up.

When you look down to dust off your clothes, the sight of your bloodstained blouse and skirt sends a rush of images through your head. Memories. The basement, a knife, and… him. Though all you can remember is a distorted image, a white mask with cavernous eyes.

It’s as quiet as a morgue as far as you can hear, but you’re hoping someone will be home and can help you find out what happened. The concrete is jagged through your socks as you walk anxiously down the street, and when you look back and forth, you notice that the front doors of all the houses are open. Inside of them you can see the occasional couch or table beneath a flickering lightbulb, but besides that they all look pretty empty. If it weren’t for the cars parked in the driveways, you’d think no one had ever lived there except maybe junkies or squatters.

“ _What is going on_ …” You mutter and wrap your arms around yourself. At least if you keep walking you might run into someone driving home. Hopefully.

As you pass a tall hedge, a flock of crows suddenly flies up in a noisy flap of wings and cawing that has you jumping back with a startled cry and clutching your hand over your heart. Once it no longer feels like your heart is going to burst out of your chest, you flip off the sky in the direction the crows flew, and then keep walking.

The hedge leads around to a short walkway and looking down it you can see just ahead are a few park benches, beyond that more neighborhoods and endless streets. Your brow furrows in worry, glancing to the street in front of you and then turning to look over your shoulder.

As your eyes scan the street behind you, trying to decide which way to go, there’s a shadow of movement beside one of the trees and then slowly—the white, screaming mask of Ghostface peers from around the tree trunk and right at you. The sight makes your blood run cold, and as soon as you see him, he’s gone.

Everything is coming back now. The basement. The slow, heavy thud of his boots as he descended the stairs, and you thinking it was just Dwight. The knife. The way it remained lodged in your stomach even as his hands left the hilt to wrap around your throat and slip beneath your skirt.

You don’t even know where you’re going but you’re running, the cold night air burning your lungs with each heaving breath as you force your legs to go faster despite the burn in your muscles. As you near the end of the street, a large brick fence with a spiked iron grate lining the top comes into view, and you’re forced to make a sharp turn to keep running.

The fence is endless, blocking you in. There’s nowhere to go. You slow down for a minute, adrenaline making you feel cold and shaky, and look over your shoulder again.

He’s there, only this time peering around one of the hedges, and now you can see the knife hanging from his grip. The same knife that ended your life sometime earlier…. or so you’d thought. Tears blur your vision, and you start running again, though you know it’s useless. Just as you sprint up the steps of one of the empty houses, you feel his gloved fingers graze your arm in a faint touch. He’s right behind you.

The back door and windows are boarded up, so you’re forced to head upstairs, and the first room is another dead end with boarded up windows, and the second is the same. It’s all a dead end. You’re trapped.

Tears are flowing freely down your cheeks now as you back into the corner of one of the empty bedrooms, and then slide down the wall till you’re sitting on the floor with your arms wrapped around your knees. You squeeze your eyes shut, quietly whispering “this isn’t real” over and over in a desperate chant, hoping that your incantation may strike pity with the universe. Whatever fucked up universe this is…

“Oh, but it is real—” Your eyes snap open at the sound of his distorted voice, and he’s standing in the doorway staring down at you, “So gloriously real.”

“Get the fuck away from me!” You scream but he just laughs, tossing the knife in the air and catching it again.

“Now, now, there’s no need to swear.” He’s taunting you, reveling in the game.

“Fuck you!” You slam your fists against the wood floor in a fit of anger. If you could you’d be snarling at him like a dog, snapping and foaming at the mouth, ready to tear him apart. But you’re not. All you can do is cry and scream at him.

When he lunges forward you try to throw yourself to the side out of his grasp, clawing at the wood floor, but he easily predicts your movements and within a second has you up on your knees by a fistful of your hair. Your hands instantly fly up to try and claw at his forearm, the pain in your scalp searing hot, but he maneuvers out of your reach—painfully jerking your head in the process.

“Not so tough now, huh sweetheart?” Even through the mask you can hear the smug smile in his voice, and it makes more tears well in your eyes, though this time out of frustration. He brings the knife up and places the tip of the blade beneath your chin, as a gesture for you to look up at him from where you’re angrily staring at the floor.

Reluctantly, you comply, and your hands fall limply at your sides. He gives a low hum of approval, tracing your jawline with the sharp edge of the knife, and you wince when he presses down just enough to draw blood. Part of you wants to resist, to force him to kill you because you fight so hard. But now that you remember last time, and how willingly you succumbed to death and how you still ended up here—you know it’s useless.

“I think you owe me an apology, don’t you?” Suddenly the knife disappears from your skin and you see him sheath it at his side before reaching beneath his robe to retrieve something.

As soon as he lifts the silver camera up, the black eye of the lens pointing down at you with soulless disapproval, your stomach sinks. Honestly, you didn’t think the situation could get any worse, but Ghostface is full of surprises.

He leans in towards the camera to look through the field of view, and then gives your hair a hard yank to make you tilt your head up more. The red recording light begins to blink, and you cast your eyes down in shame with cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“Alright princess, you ready to say sorry?” He asks, the voice modulator crackling over some of the words.

Even with his grip on your hair, you still manage to shake your head defiantly, and keep your eyes glued to the floor. Behind the mask, you can hear his quiet huff of laughter.

“Come on, be a good girl for me. You don’t wanna make it worse for yourself, do you?” As he speaks, he brings the camera down a little to get a better angle of your face, and in a sudden spur of rebellion you flip off the lens—though your confidence is short lived when he releases your hair and brings his leg up to land a hard kick against your chest, knocking the wind from your lungs as your back hits the floor.

It feels like someone took a hammer to your chest and ribs, each breath causing another throb of pain that makes you wheeze and groan in agony. With eyes squeezed shut, trying to figure out how to breathe again, you don’t notice when he steps over you until you feel the nudge of his foot by your side and the other comes up to rest on your aching chest right where he kicked you. Your eyes open to the camera obscuring his mask slightly as he leans over you, the red light blinking away like a timer tracking your seconds left to live.

“I’ll give you one more chance to say sorry.” He presses his foot down a little harder against your chest and you gasp. Your hands fly up to his boot and wrap around the thick leather covering his ankle, pulling against it to try and relieve some of the pressure—to no avail. Your bones feel like they’re going to snap beneath the pressure, or your lungs might concave if you don’t get him to stop. So, you swallow your pride in all its bitter taste.

“I-I’m sorry.” It hurts to speak but you force the words out, and as soon as you do his foot on your chest lets up—letting you gasp desperately for air.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” His free hand unsheathes the knife from his side once more, and he takes his foot off your chest to stand on either side of you, pinning you in his stance as he looms above. “What are you sorry for, princess?”

Anger bubbles up again when you realize he plans to draw out the game at your ultimate humiliation, but the aching soreness in your chest makes you bite your tongue—and you’re starting to realize that he’s trying to teach you that you’ll get farther with honey than with vinegar. If you’re obedient, he won’t hurt you, and it makes you seethe with rage.

Impatient with your internal debate, he leans down and presses the razor sharp edge of the knife against your throat hard enough to break skin. It does work though, the sudden return of a threat kicking your brain into overdrive.

“I’m—I’m sorry for s-swearing at you and being rude.” You lick your lips nervously, honestly not even sure of what he wanted to hear you say, but evidently it was well enough because he straightens up again—though keeping the knife in hand.

“Mmm such a good girl,” He obnoxiously tilts the camera down so that you know the video is capturing your whole body as you’re laying--- willingly—between his legs where he’s standing over you. “Since you’re being so sweet now, I guess you deserve a reward instead of a punishment.”

To your surprise, Ghostface steps away from you and crosses the room to the wall that’s just a few feet away. You watch with mild curiosity as he kneels down with his back to you, but you know that his _ignoring_ you is just a trap to tempt you to try and run again, to disobey him. He wants you to give him a reason to hurt you.

When he straightens back up, you see that he’s set the camera on the floor with the lens protruding out in your direction, and the red recording light still blinking away to let you know that it’s happily watching everything. Your eyes blur slightly, causing the red light to kaleidoscope in your vision, though there’s no tears—just mental detachment.

Ghostface is standing over you again and he drops to his knees on either side of your hips, then easily flipping you over onto your stomach with little to no resistance from you. You can’t bring yourself to care anymore, gaze still locked on the steady blinking of the camera. His fingers dip beneath the hollow of your hips and then he’s pulling them up and back so that your ass is sticking in the air while your cheek remains pressed to the floor.

Cold air hits your skin when he flips your plaid skirt up, and he hums at the sight of your cute white panties, hands grazing over the curves of your ass. You jerk slightly when his thumb brushes over your clothed sex, and though the touch is gentle—you know he can feel the slick evidence of your arousal where it’s soaking through your panties.

“So ready for me, huh sweetheart? See how gentle I can be when you’re a good girl?” Without warning, he gives your ass a harsh slap and you can’t even help the moan that escapes your lips. He just laughs and squeezes your ass before slapping it again, though harder this time, and forcing another shrill moan from you.

“You don’t like it when I’m gentle though, do you? You like it better like this. Like being helpless.” He thrusts his hips against you pointedly and you arch your back, which is answer enough for him. The hard outline of his cock through his pants is pressing against you and it’s making you delirious, making your head feel hot and airy. Your fingers curl against the floor, nails scratching against the wood.

“Answer me.” He slaps your ass again when he says it and you jolt forward, skin raw and sensitive now from the previous onslaught.

“Y-yes…” You practically whisper, eyes locked on the camera lens.

“What was that?” His tone is impatient and in a flash he has you by the hair again, wrapping your tresses around his fist to hold a better grip. When you don’t answer right away, he gives your hair a hard pull, forcing your back into a painful arch to the point that when you look up you can almost see his face where he’s leaning over you.

“Yes! Yes! I like it! I want it!” You cry out and he thankfully drops you to the floor again.

“Good girl.”

His hands return to your hips and slowly, he drags your panties down till they pool around your knees where you’re kneeling. Your cunt is pulsing with desire, and he wastes no time in rubbing one of his gloved fingers against your dripping entrance, coating the black leather in your arousal.

Teasingly, his finger dips inside you, barely past the first knuckle, and your pussy clenches needily trying to pull his finger in deeper. When his thumb prods at your clit, your eyes flutter closed, his subtle teasing making your brain short circuit. He groans lowly at the way your hips rock back against his hand, and how your pussy visibly spasms around his finger as he thrusts it shallowly in and out.

It’s becoming too much. Your heart is racing you so badly need him to just fuck you out of your mind, and you know that he’s holding back. You can feel it in the way his free hand is holding onto your hip with a death grip, to keep you from fucking yourself on his finger.

“Pleaseee… Please, fuck me—need you to fill me up.” You whine and even look over your shoulder at him, though keeping your face against the floor. He moans and gives your ass a harsh slap, making you yelp in surprise and causing your cunt to spasm around his finger.

“Love hearing you beg.” His finger disappears from your dripping folds and you whimper at the sudden loss, “I’ll give you just want you need, sweetheart.”

Your gaze goes back to the camera again, as he shifts around behind you to slide down his pants and free his achingly hard cock. When his gloved hands return to the backs of your thighs, he’s spreading the swollen lips of your pussy to line up the blunt head of his cock with your entrance, the warm feeling of skin on skin making butterflies erupt in your stomach. In one hard thrust he bottoms out, the length and thickness of his cock stretching your cunt deliciously as he sets a brutal pace—giving you no time to adjust.

A dazed smile graces your lips as he pounds into you, your mouth hanging open from the torrent of high-pitched noise that he’s forcing out of you each time his cock stabs against the sensitive bundle of nerves deep inside you. The wet slap of skin on skin echoes around the empty room, coupled with your shrill, pornographic moans.

Your mind is blank. All you can focus on is the perfect drag of his cock deep inside you each time he thrusts back in, and the way your pussy gushes around him, coating the backs of your thighs and ass in your cum. If this is Hell, you’ll definitely sign your name in the devil’s book.

His thrusts are getting harder to the point you’re not even kneeling anymore, unable to keep yourself upright against the force of his cock hammering into you. Your back is arched to keep him angling into you, and you’re pressed into the floor with his arms on either side of your head—caging you in.

“Fuck, I could live in this pussy.” He groans and you nod weakly in response, canting your hips back towards him for a deeper angle that makes your toes curl.

“You’re mine.” He leans down till you can feel the tickle of his rubber mask against your cheek, and see the white rubbery material in your peripherals, “I brought you here. No one else gets to touch you now. This pussy is mine.”

“All yours.” You moan deliriously, drool seeping from the corner of your mouth and onto the floor as you near the edge of bliss. Liquid pleasure is pooling in your abdomen, a warm pressure that’s on the edge of overflowing.

He buries the face of his mask into the crook of your neck and you can hear him breathing and feel the low groans that rumble from his chest against your back. He’s just as lost in the feeling as you, and the realization makes your insides flutter, and spurs you in your delirium to meet his thrusts—pushing your hips back in time with him.

“Cum for me. Cum all over my cock, I wanna feel it.” He groans, and the desperation in his words finally send you hurtling over the edge. Your pussy is clenching around his relentlessly pounding cock and all that pressure that had built up comes flooding out— gushing all over him and dripping onto the floor beneath you. He fucks you through your orgasm, and each time he thrusts back in you can hear your pussy squelch around his twitching cock, forcing every tremor from your body.

The wet heat of your spasming cunt brings on his own orgasm, milking his cock as he thrusts in one last time and fills you up with enough cum that you can feel it dripping out around his shaft and joining the rest of your mess on the floor beneath your belly. You’re both a fucking wreck, and you’ve never felt this amazing in your life.

Your limbs are like lead as you lay limply on the floor, with the comforting weight of his body draped over you. After a moment, he finally pulls out, and you can hear his sharp intake of breath from how sensitive he must be. The thought makes you smile. You fucked him up just as much as he did you. You’re even now.

When your eyes flicker open, they’re met by the blinking red light of the camera and for some reason the sight makes you giggle—which turns to full on laughter the longer you stare at it.

“Did I fuck you stupid?” He murmurs, still laying on top of you, and you can feel his warm breath against your skin even through the mask.

“Probably,” You’re still giggling a little, and he laughs softly above you—the sound reverberating against your back, “Can I… Can I get a copy of that video?”

You feel him lean up slightly so that he can look down at you, probably in disbelief, probably so that he can check if he gave you brain damage, and you bite your lip to try and subdue your smile. He just hums in approval and lays back down again with his face buried in your neck, and one of his gloved hands moves up over the back of your hand where it’s resting on the floor— so that he can lace his fingers with yours.

“I’ll make you a hundred copies as long as we can watch it together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ghostface is a brat tamer pass it on. 
> 
> Lmao this chapter got way ahead of me, 3000 words into this I was like what the fuck? But, I have no regrets tbh. I'm at that point where I've been literally only playing goddamn Ghostface in the goddamn game so this second chapter was bound to happen. I hope you all enjoyed my little story about sweet Mr Ghosty-Goo!!! 🖤🖤🖤 (And yes, I edited this so that it would come to exactly 6,066 words.)


	3. Return of The Evil Ghostdick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE! I had the sudden idea for an additional chapter to this story and couldn't resist writing it! This was a lot of fun, so I hope you guys enjoy it as well 🖤 Also it was a good break before I start writing the next chapter of my Legion story too! 
> 
> Comments and kudos always appreciated, and thanks for the support! 🖤

Your heavy breathing and soft moans fill the room, eyes locked intently on the TV where onscreen Ghostface has just flipped you over so that you’re face down on the wood floor and he’s spanking your ass till you can see tears form in your eyes even through the pixilated video.

He made good on his condition that he’d make you a copy of the video as long as you got to watch it together, and that is why you’re currently sitting on his lap with your back against his chest and your legs spread over his thighs, while he keeps a firm arm wrapped around your belly as the other squeezes and plays with your tits.

You’re a fucking mess.

His leather gloved hand keeps flexing over your ribs as if he can barely control himself, but still he keeps you helplessly splayed out in his lap so that he can do whatever he wants to you. Onscreen when he slides the first finger inside your pussy, his hand drops from where he had a fistful of your tits down between your thighs, rubbing teasing circles against your clit that have your thighs shaking over his legs.

Yes, the small shred of your conscious that is left is still screaming that you shouldn’t have gone crawling after him once he’d finished with you— begging for more as if he’d scrambled your brains and not just your guts with his cock. It was also screaming that you shouldn’t have agreed to letting him take you to some stranger’s house so you could watch the little film you’d made together.

“Look how desperate you were for my cock. You’d have let me do anything to you… just like you would now.” His voice is deep and breathy behind the mask, the ragged ends of the fabric tickling your skin as he watches the screen over your shoulder.

His spreads your pussy lips with his fingers and then uses his middle finger to rub up and down over your clit, eliciting a loud moan from you that blends with the chorus of noises also coming from you onscreen. You’re gripping onto his forearm that’s wrapped around your waist, nails digging into the sleeves of his cloak till your bones ache from the pressure. He’s keeping you on the edge, but not letting you fall.

“Bet you want my cock so bad right now… wanna be full of my cum again.” Ghostface groans lowly when you moan ‘yes’ in response. His middle finger moves down from your clit and dips inside you only teasingly, then pulls away to smear your arousal across your inner thigh and the loss of contact makes your cunt throb.

What if whoever’s goddamn house this is comes home?! Sure, everything seemed abandoned when you first woke up in the middle of the street… but maybe they were all at a Halloween party.

In the video he’s finally taking his cock out and you literally whine when he starts to slide it in, the sight making your body go weak with need and your head lolls back against his shoulder. At this he gives your pussy a harsh slap, making you jolt up in shock.

“Keep your eyes on the screen.” He orders, cupping his palm over your sensitive flesh and using the heel of his hand to apply pressure against your clit.

“I-I want it so bad…” You whimper and he just responds with a huff of laughter, the mocking noise makes your stomach twist with butterflies.

“I know you do sweetheart. Such a needy little whore, huh?” His tone is dripping with sweet sarcasm and you’re eating it up, the humiliation making you writhe in his arms as you rock your hips against his palm—desperate for friction.

You’re making a mess all over his leather glove, getting so wet that his hand is sliding embarrassingly easily over your sensitive skin as he lets you rut against his palm. He moves his arm from your waist, forcing you to relent and grip the cushions of the old couch you’re both seated on, and instead brings his hand up to shove two fingers into your open mouth, gripping your cheeks between his thumb and ring finger as he fucks them in and out of your eager pink lips.

You swirl your tongue around his fingers and the leather tastes earthy over your tastebuds, making your eyes flutter closed as you moan around the thick digits. He slaps your pussy again, making your eyes fly open. It seems like forever that he’s been fucking you onscreen now, and your body feels achingly empty watching the way your face contorts in pleasure as he relentlessly pounds you into the floor.

You’re begging him to fuck you harder and to let you come, voice static through the speakers, and it is inspiration enough that you reach up and tug at his arm slightly. He obliges—pulling his fingers out of your mouth but still resting them on your lower lip.

“Please, please fuck me.... need you to fill me up so bad.” You whine breathlessly and squirm in his lap, watching as he holds you up by a fistful of your hair onscreen. You can feel how hard he is beneath you and you grind your ass down against his thick length throbbing in his pants, just to try and entice him.

It works, thankfully.

“Well, since you asked so nicely.” You can hear the strain in his voice despite the arrogance, arousal making his voice rough and gravelly, and he wastes no time in lifting you by the waist and sitting you on the front of his thighs so that he can unbutton his pants and free his achingly hard cock.

Your whole body is heating up with anticipation and you so badly want to look over your shoulder, but you know he’ll punish you if you do so you keep your eyes glued to the TV and wait patiently. 

Behind you, he scoots down a little lower on the couch and you almost lose your balance where you’re straddling his thighs, but he quickly grabs you by the waist and lifts you up again— bringing you to lay back against his chest once more.

You can’t resist it when your gaze slips down to where his hard cock is jutting up between your legs, the glow of light from the TV illuminating the dribble of precum on the tip as he thrusts his shaft up between the lips of your pussy. The skin is soft, and the friction is delicious, and it makes you moan aloud. 

Ghostface reaches down between your legs finally, gripping his shaft and lining up his cockhead with your dripping pussy—the knowledge of what’s next making you tense slightly. He jerks his hips up and sheaths himself in your cunt with one hard thrust, forcing a cry from your lips and your back to arch. With the entirety of his cock inside you it’s so thick your walls spasm around his shaft, resisting the intrusion despite your arousal, but that doesn’t stop him from setting a steady and brutal pace of thrusting.

His hands came up to squeeze both your tits, the heavy flesh bouncing in his hands as he fucks up into you over and over. All you can hear now is the sound of his heavy breathing next to your head coupled with your whines and the wet noise of your pussy as he impales you on his cock, his hips slapping up against your ass with each hard thrust. The rubber of his mask is pressed against your shoulder and is sticking to your skin from the light sheen of sweat that's accumulated there, the tendrils of fabric now draped across your chest.

“Fuck… your little pussy gets so fucking wet for me.” He groans, pinching your nipple hard enough to cause pain to shoot through your breast, and you nod frantically.

Your fingers find their way between your thighs and you begin circling over the swollen nub of your clit, your fingers grazing the shaft of his cock as it slides inside you while you play with yourself.

One of his hands leaves your tits and wraps around your throat, tight grip cutting off any air and making you eyes roll back. Your body goes limp from lack of air and he uses your throat as leverage to push you down harder on his cock each time he thrusts up.

“Want me to fuck you with my knife again too? Stick the blade right next to my cock in your belly, see how much you bleed when you cum…”

He’s so deep now it feels like he’s punching the air right out of your lungs, and you can barely gasp through the squeeze of his hand around your throat. Dark spots bloom in your vision, mouth opening and closing with silent noises of pleasure. Your hand falls away from your clit and you’re just holding on for dear life, the thick, long drag of his cock reducing you to nothing but a whimpering mess on top of him.

“So close… so close.” You groan hoarsely and Ghostface slides his hand down your sweaty skin to rub sloppy circles against your clit, the rough jerky movement enough to send you tumbling over the edge. Your back arches on his chest, a shrill cry tearing from your raw throat as your orgasm rips through you.

He groans a slew of curses beneath you as your pussy clenches and spams around his cock, milking him for all he’s worth till he’s pounding up into you like a fucking jackhammer and it feels like your body might split in two. The force of his thrusts send you into another dizzying orgasm just as he slams up into you one final time, holding you there by the throat as he fills you up. Hot spurts of cum spill inside you, and you can feel it dripping out between the swollen lips of your cunt and down onto his belly, smearing across your ass.

Everything burns with raw bliss as you both lay there a panting sweating mess, and you hear your own faint, hysterical giggle from the TV as the video draws to an end.

You wince when he finally pulls out of you, your insides sore from the abuse though the feeling isn’t unwelcomed. Ghostface just lays there still catching his breath, even when you sit up, your pussy dripping cum onto his bare stomach as you force your numb limbs back to life.

“Myers is gonna be pissed that we fucked on his couch.” He says with a breathless laugh, and you can’t help the smile that tugs at the corner of your lips. At least it’s not a total stranger’s house like you thought… though that would’ve been hot too.

“I guess we’ll just have to clean up any evidence.” Carefully you slide off of him and onto the couch, though your muscles scream in protest, and he turns his masked face towards you with what would be an inquisitive stare. The TV has turned to grey static behind you since the video ended and you climb down from the couch and kneel between his legs, the flickering lights of static bouncing off the white screaming mask that’s looking down at you now.

Wordlessly you lean forward and lick a hot stripe across his bare stomach, lapping up some of the cum that had spilled out of you there. You kitten lick the rest, looking up at him through your lashes as you swirl your tongue across his skin. His stomach muscles jump beneath your ministrations, and he reaches down and threads his fingers through your hair, holding it back from your face so there’s nothing blocking the view of you cleaning the cum off his stomach.

When you’re sure you’ve got it all cleaned up you sit back on your heels, then wiping your mouth off on the back of your hand and looking up at him.

“Got any more movies you wanna watch?”


End file.
